For it would take strength to lift this buried mass of metal out of the mound of sand. Not the strength of muscles, but the strength of mind.
Of course, he told himself, if he could not lift the ship he still could use the time-mover, shift the ship, lying where it was, forward six thousand years. Although there was hazards he did not like to think about. For in shifting the ship through time, he would be exposing it to every threat and vagary of the river through the whole six thousand years.
He put his hand up to his throat, feeling for the key chain that hung around his neck.
And there was no chain!
Mind dulled by sudden terror, he stood frozen for a moment.
Pockets, he thought, but his hands fumbled with a dread certainty that there was no hope. For he never put the keys in his pockets…always on their chain around his neck where they would be safe.
He searched, feverishly at first, then with a grim, cold thoroughness.
His pockets held no key.
The chain broke, he thought in frantic desperation. The chain broke and it fell inside my clothes. He patted himself, carefully, from head to foot, and it was not there. He took off his shirt, gently, cautiously, feeling for the missing key. He tossed the shirt aside and, sitting down, pulled off his trousers, searching in their folds, turning them inside out.
And there was no key.